The Day We Forgot to Say Goodbye

The morning was ordinary. That’s what still haunts me.

My younger brother, Saad, was arguing about the last slice of toast — nothing dramatic, just the usual sibling squabble. I was running late for school, stuffing my books into my backpack with one hand and scrolling through my phone with the other. My father sat at the kitchen table, sipping his chai in silence, while my mother moved from stove to sink like clockwork.

I didn’t know that would be the last time I saw my father alive.

We think goodbyes come with warning signs — flashing lights, dramatic music, tearful embraces. But they don’t. Sometimes, they come wrapped in the mundane. Like toast and tangled earbuds and forgotten lunch boxes.

That morning, I looked at him. He asked me if I had my math test. I mumbled, “Yeah, yeah,” and ran out the door.

Later that afternoon, my mother called. Her voice wasn’t panicked, just she was confused.

“Your father’s not picking up. He went to the shop after you left. It’s been hours.”

I told her not to worry. “Maybe his phone died,” I said. “Or he met a friend. You know how he is.”

But by evening, the silence felt heavier. My uncle came over. Then a neighbor. Someone called the hospitals. Someone else called the police. And just like that, our kitchen — the same one with the toast argument and chai steam — turned into a command center of worry.

They found his body two days later, slumped beside his car in an alley not far from home. A heart attack, the doctor said. Quick. Painless, maybe. But nothing about it felt peaceful.

I remember sitting on my bed that night, replaying every second of that morning. Did I hug him? No. Did I even say goodbye? I didn’t. I didn’t even say thank you when he handed me the bus fare.

Grief is strange. It doesn’t hit you like a wave — it drips, slow and stubborn. First the shock, then the guilt, then the memories you thought were buried under years of routine. His laugh when he watched cricket. The way he always forgot to put the cap back on the toothpaste. His old, frayed slippers that no one dared to throw away, even now.

For weeks, I moved like a ghost. School didn’t matter. Friends didn’t know what to say. Some gave me those awkward half-hugs; others just avoided eye contact altogether.

I stopped talking. I stopped caring.

One evening, I found myself sitting in his armchair — the same spot he’d claim every night while watching the news. The cushion still had the shape of him, like it refused to forget. I stayed there for hours. I cried, for the first time properly, without trying to be strong.

That was the moment something shifted.

Grief didn’t disappear. It never does. But I began to carry it differently. I started writing letters to him — long, rambling notes about my day, my dreams, even my regrets. I’d fold them and place them in his drawer. Silly, maybe, but it helped.

Months passed. The house got quieter. My mom stopped flinching when the phone rang. Saad stopped checking the front door every night. Life, stubborn as it is, moved forward.

But I never stopped missing him. Especially in the small moments — when the tea isn’t quite right, when the bus is late and I imagine him cursing under his breath, or when I see a man on the street wearing a faded blue cap just like his.

If I could go back to that morning, I wouldn’t change what happened — I know I can’t. But I’d do one thing differently.

I’d say goodbye.

I’d say, “I love you.”

I’d pause long enough to look at him, really look at him.

Because you never know which moments will become memories — and which ones you’ll spend the rest of your life wishing you’d held on to.